


Neither With Nor Without

by GretaOto



Series: Strange and Wonderful Truths [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3697079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretaOto/pseuds/GretaOto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just can't win. And then you realize you don't want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neither With Nor Without

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a recent business trip. it was written up while waiting for the husband to come out of surgery (minor, he’s fine).

Arthur can’t sleep.

See, Arthur is most definitely _not_ a cuddler. Eames, on the other hand…. Eames is.

Now Arthur has no problem with a good cuddle when he first crawls into bed. Especially when Eames beats him to bed by a few minutes. Then Arthur can slide in next to him, exchange the frigid bedroom air for delicious warmth, pillow his head on Eames’ broad shoulder, and press his cold toes against Eames’ warm calves. (Eames yips and jerks away every time. _”Why don’t you love me!?”_ Arthur still does it anyway.) He likes spooning after sex too, sated and sweaty, especially when Eames lets him be the big spoon, even though they don’t exactly fit well like that.

But he can’t sleep like this, with Eames wrapped so far around him he’s practically on top of him, snoring mere inches from his ear.

(Arthur experimented with it once. He wanted to see just how long Eames would hold on if he didn’t wiggle away. So after Eames fell asleep, Arthur carefully retrieved his phone, flipped it into night mode – white text on black background – and spent the rest of the night researching, cramped and slightly claustrophobic. Sometime around 3 am, Eames stirred and shifted in his sleep. But much to Arthur’s disappointment, instead of letting go, he merely repositioned his hands and latched on tighter. When their alarm went off the next morning, Eames was still wrapped around Arthur like a demented octopus. While it was fascinating to feel Eames slowly wake, cock gradually thickening against Arthur’s back long before the rest of him began to stir, the sleep deprivation was not really worth it.)

But Arthur doesn’t complain. Instead, he has learned exactly when to shove Eames over, that liminal period between wake and sleep, when heavy breaths roughen into gentle snores. It has definitely taken some time, some trial and error, but Arthur has gotten the process down to a science. If he gets impatient, tries to wiggle free too early, Eames will make the most heartbreaking noise of protest and just pull him in tighter and closer, like a particularly tenacious kraken. If Arthur waits too long and Eames enters delta sleep, the man becomes a dead weight, impossible to shift. (In reality, Eames only outweighs him by 30 pounds or so, but it feels like a metric ton late at night.) But if he gets the timing just right, Eames will grunt once or twice and then, with a little more prodding, flip over and clutch the nearest pillow to his chest in a death grip. Then Arthur is free to sprawl, or spoon up behind his partner, or wedge himself back-to-back, pressed ankle to shoulder against Eames’ warm bulk, or all of the above, whatever it takes to finally get comfortable.

He’s still working on figuring out the best anti-snoring position for Eames. He is sure it exists. It has to. They will never work out in the long run if he doesn’t.

\--

Arthur can’t sleep.

The room is too quiet. He can hear every rustle of the sheets, water gurgling in distant pipes, even the sounds of traffic despite being 23 stories up. And no matter how he arranges and rearranges the plethora of pillows, he can’t relax. It’s not the bed; he’s in the goddamn InterContinental, the bed is fantastic.

Something is missing. 

Eames is missing.

Arthur realizes, with a growing sense of horror, that somewhere in the last few months he has gotten used to – dependent on, apparently – the clingy, blanket-stealing, intermittently-snoring, sexy-as-hell, living furnace he calls a bedmate.

Arthur had been excited about the job. It was the first job that he had worked solo since the two of them got together. It didn’t require a forger, and Eames had been offered a sizable commission to do some real-world forging, so he had stayed home to work on his documents in peace. Arthur had been gleefully ecstatic about having a bed all to himself again.

Well, shit.

Arthur fumbles for his phone. Squinting against the sudden glare, he downloads the first sound machine app he can find. As he stares at the darkened ceiling, listening to tinny artificial rain on a 30 second loop, he resigns himself to drinking a lot of shitty coffee over the next few weeks.

\--

Arthur can’t sleep. 

Jet lag always messes him up for two or three days after changing time zones, and the 10 hour difference from Vietnam is a real doozy. 

If he were by himself, he would stay up for another few hours, wait until he was good and tired, and shortchange himself on sleep to force his circadian rhythm to sync with the current time zone. But he is home, and Eames was in his bed, and a good cuddle sounded like the most fantastic fucking thing on this green earth.

They said their hellos earlier – first desperate, frantic, filled with longing and weeks of loneliness, then again, after Arthur had a chance to wash airports and travel from his skin, leisurely and tender.

And now Arthur is wide awake, his internal clock reading 9 in the morning. He is a little too warm. His hand is cramped underneath him and Eames’ arm is heavy across his ribs. Every time he shifts to get comfortable, Eames draws him back, entwining their legs together in awkward knots. Eames is snoring lightly, breaths humid against his neck, asleep within minutes as usual.

But Arthur is smiling. He missed this, missed _him_. He can’t sleep, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
